


aphelion

by ilet (orphan_account)



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mutual Pining, takes place during the 3 weeks on Sargon in S1E4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:33:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21618424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ilet
Summary: In the early hours of the night, he dreams of her.In the dream, he stays.Upon waking, there is a pang in his chest. It does not subside.
Relationships: The Mandalorian/Omera (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 385





	aphelion

**Author's Note:**

> **aphelion** _(n.)_ the point in the orbit of a planet, asteroid, or comet at which it is furthest from the sun.

In the early hours of the night, he dreams of her.

In the dream, he stays.

Upon waking, there is a pang in his chest. It does not subside.

He rises with the sun. Unsurprisingly, Omera is already at work: sifting through the wreckage of the AT-ST, she searches for anything salvageable. He watches her crouch on the ruined hull with the kind of ease that speaks of experience. She comes back out of the walker’s burnt corpse with armfuls of singed yet presumably useable parts. She moves back and forth between the wreckage and a growing pile of scrap on the bank of the pond with efficiency; he wonders how she seems to know exactly what to take.

Winta is waiting for him. In fact, she ambushes him. One moment, he’s walking towards Omera, the next, Winta steps into his path, causing him to halt. She hardly gives him time to register that he did not hear her approaching before asking, “can I see him?”

“He’s sleeping.”

But Winta shakes her head in earnest. “I won’t wake him up,” she promises.

He already knows what he’ll see, but he does it anyway: he glances up to find her mother looking at him, face smudged with dirt, giving him a knowing smile. Omera tilts her head, waiting, and he relents: sighing, he says, “sure,” and Winta takes off, darting around him and making a beeline for the barn.

When he reaches Omera, she is kneeling on the bank, filling a reed basket with items from the scrapheap. Parts of panels, coils of wiring, sheets of duralloy he wonders how she managed to pry off without an abundance of jagged edges. He crouches next to her and begins sifting through the debris.

“Did you sleep well?” Omera asks him after a few minutes. Her basket is nearly full.

“Yes,” he says. “Thank you.”

“How about your boy?”

“Yes. He slept well.”

“I’m glad,” she says.

He is, too. Glad and relieved.

 _Your boy_ , she said. The thought makes something in his chest twist.

“Winta didn’t sleep last night,” Omera says after a beat. “She was worried about him.”

He nods. “I understand.”

“He was asleep before you put him to bed, wasn’t he?” It is not exactly a question; she smiles as if she knows the answer. He does not doubt that she does.

“Yes,” he says, sighing.

“That’s good,” Omera says warmly.

He nodes, unsure of what else to say.

She doesn’t seem to mind; they continue their work in silence.

The corpse of the AT-ST is eventually dragged away. The sites of the ruined, smoldering buildings are cleared so the rebuilding can begin. The harvesting resumes.

He splits his time between watch duty, cleaning his weapons, watching over the child, and what Cara likes to call _lurking_. That isn’t far from the truth; throughout the day, there are times when his hands are free and his attention is drawn to the roaming gaggle of children. Winta carries the child everywhere, in such a careful way, as if she has always been his older sister—as if this is the way it has always been, and always will be. He stands out of their way as they rush by, laughing and kicking a stick ball between them. It reminds him of the children in the culvert, running back and forth across the entrance hall, chasing loaded dice and chipped marbles.

Inevitably, he finds Omera. Or she finds him. Either way, they end up standing in the doorway of the barn or at the edge of a pond, side by side, not close enough to touch but not far enough apart so that he could not reach out to her—if necessary, of course.

He wonders where she was before Sorgan—how she learned to shoot, why she knows her way around Imperial tech, if she always knew or wanted the life she has.

He never asks, though. And she never tells him.

Sometimes, he finds himself alone with her.

In those moments, he finds it hardest to breathe.

It never lasts long, but he thinks about it afterwards. Always.

He thinks about reaching for her, letting her slip off his gloves in the dark—

He sighs.

“How many planets have you been to?” Winta asks. The child is swaddled in her arms, cooing, reaching for her hair.

“Many,” he says.

“How many planets has _he_ been to?” she asks.

He pauses. “I don’t know,” he admits. He looks up from wiping down his pulse rifle to look at her; she is placing the child in his crib, crouching down so they are at eyelevel with one another.

“I’ve never been anywhere,” she half-whispers, somewhat in a conspiratorial manner to the child. “But Mommy has. She says this is the nicest place she’s ever been. Is this the nicest place you’ve ever been?”

He holds perfectly still, waiting, but Winta does not elaborate. He feels a twinge of disappointment; he would have liked to hear more.

Omera comes to him at dusk with the child in her arms. Squirming and cooing, she hands him off to the Mandalorian. “Winta is finally asleep,” she says by way of greeting. “She was telling him a story.”

He nods. He places the child in the crib as gently as possible. “Thank you,” he says, turning to face her.

Something is lodged in his throat. He cannot say if it is a question or a statement, a phrase or the beginning or ending of a thing he knows he shouldn’t give voice to. But, watching her look upon the child with such _love_ , he wants to. More than anything.

He swallows.

She tilts her head. “It used to be Winta’s.”

“The crib?”

“Yes.” Her eyes glitter in the fading light. “I made it for her shortly before she was born.”

“You made that,” he echoes, looking back at the crib. The child was now lying down, turned on his side, blinking sleepily up at them. “It’s…very nice.”

“It’s yours, now.”

His heart nearly stops.

He meets her gaze again. “I can’t,” he beings, but she shakes her head, and steps closer.

“It’s yours,” Omera repeats, peering up into his face. “It belongs to you and your boy now.” She smiles, and—

She puts her hand on his. Feather-light, barely touching, but it's still happening.

He can’t _breathe_.

“My gift to you,” she murmurs glancing down at their hands. Softly, again, for the last time: “it’s yours.”

He nearly chokes. “Thank you,” he manages, his heart in his throat, and she positively _beams_ up at him.

She is like the sun. She is like the calm after the storm. She is—

Oh, no. _Oh, no_. His breath hitches.

Neither of them move.

“Good night,” she whispers finally, giving his hand a squeeze. They stay like that for a moment; it is simultaneously the longest and shortest moment in his life. Then, she turns and leaves him.

He watches her go.

He finally remembers to breathe.


End file.
